


The Infinite Descent

by angelheadedhipster, nitpickyabouttrains



Category: GAIMAN Neil - Works, Neverwhere - All Media Types, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Islington loves his wings, M/M, Richard Mayhew is a saucy minx, This is based on the radio version, Voice porn, because we love his wings too, but CANON wing!fic, but thats okay, groupwrite, seriously we talk about his wings a lot, so there are some long descriptions of voices, we regret nothing, wing porn, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not at all what Richard had been expecting to happen when he and Islington were alone. He had thought there might be a fight. Maybe a conversation. He did not understand what was happening, but he knew how it felt. It felt good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was bound to happen. I mean, pretty much from when they posted the [cast list](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neverwhere_\(radio_play\)#Cast) for this thing, we knew we were gonna have to do this.
> 
> Title from "Angels in America."
> 
> Thanks to our Betas [kirenamuln](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/pseuds/kirenamuln) and [Erin](http://halfthesizetwicethefun.tumblr.com)

_I needed you, I knew I was in danger_  
 _of losing what I used to think was mine_  
 _You let me love you till I was a failure,_  
 _You let me love you till I was a failure --_  
 _Your beauty on my bruise like iodine_  
~ Leonard Cohen, “Iodine”

 

Islington lay in the sand, too weak to raise himself up, staring at the bright desert sun, piercing and white in the sky. Earth sun. He was on earth. 

It had taken him so much to get here. Time, time that couldn't be measured in any way that the inhabitants of this planet would understand. Time and energy, and pain. The Lady had sent him so far away, he still didn't know where, but he had lived on earth a long time. He knew where it was, and how to get here. And he may have fallen, but he was still an angel. He knew places others did not know, roads that existed only for him.

Those roads had enacted a price. His wings were in tatters, blood seeping through the feathers and pooling at the tips. They would grow back. He was weak, hungry and starving, scarred and breathless. He had lost much of his power and some of his majesty.

It didn’t matter. He was almost there. To London.

Across the universe, the wastes of space and darkness, the pain and the endless journey, one thought had kept him going. Revenge. Against those who, when he thought he was closest to having all he wanted, to being returned to his home, had snatched it away and sent him further and deeper away then he had ever imagined.

The Lady Door.

And, worse than her, a mortal with no magic or sense who had gotten mixed up and ruined everything. 

Islington said that name out loud, rolling the R and biting off the end. The journey had robbed his voice of its unearthly harmonics and some of its more subtle persuasion, but it was still a voice of power and control. And now, a voice of hatred. 

"Richard Mayhew."

+++

It was amazing, Richard Mayhew thought, the difference a year could make. Well, truly it didn’t take a year to change his life, it had only taken one adventure. His first trip to London Below was long past and Richard never looked back at his decision. He was a Warrior now, _The Warrior_ sometimes, depending on who he was talking to. He did not miss his days of working in an office at all.

Life in London Below was never what Richard thought it would be. Even now, after months and months, he was surprised by what he encountered. Nothing was predictable and every day was different. Much to Richard’s initial shock, he found that he thrived in such a situation.

In London Above, Richard had been average. Boring, even. Nothing about him had stood out as particularly important or grand. He did what he was supposed to. But that was not the case in London below, where he was a knight, where he had saved the day, where he was special. Already the tale of The Angel Islington and The Key were being told in hushed voices, passed along in pubs and around fires. It was the stuff of legend, made real.

Immediately after returning, after calling the Marquis de Carabas and deciding he no longer wanted to live his old life, things had been rather complex for Richard. In London Below, he had no calling, no function, nothing to do with his time. Nothing other than staying alive, of course.

He had gotten back into contact with Door right away. Looking for her had been rather simple, as she had made sure she could be found now. She was on a mission once again, looking for her sister Portia. And for a while, Richard had joined her, traveling together just like before. But it grew grueling, and the girl was not to be found.

Richard had parted ways with Door after a few months of constant searching. It happened in Oxford Circus, which was of course, a real circus, in London Below. The elephant trainer had told him a story about a great beast prowling the bottom of the Thames. It occurred to Richard suddenly that with Hunter gone, there was no one out there chasing down the monsters of lore. He had her knife. He was a warrior now. It could be him.

The search for Portia was going nowhere and Richard decided to abandon that quest in favor of a new one, as a slayer of beasts.

Saying goodbye to Door had been difficult, but needed. Which was how Richard now found himself alone, prowling the nooks and crannies of the city for unspeakable things he had once not even been able to dream of. Hunting.

+++

For an angel, time has no meaning. In the dark reaches of space, nothing changes, and time becomes invisible. All the same, the sun had risen and set twice before Islington spied a change in the landscape, signs of what would probably be described by humans as "civilization." He was getting closer.

A few feet from the city, a man passed by him and stared, open-eyed, at Islington as he walked. Humans. Should they even be able to see him? He wasn't sure what the rules were outside London Below; it had been millenia since he left his citadel and now, well, now he was free, by some approximation of the word. His lip curled. Free to crawl around in the dirt with these humans. He hissed at the man, who scurried away.

Islington kept walking. The sun was beating down on his shoulders, he could feel the heat. Such a strange sensation, heat. On skin. Did he have skin?

Oh, he thought.

Islington pushed his consciousness out of his head and looked at himself, at his physical being, from above/behind/below, from outside. A body. What a thought. This was his now, he supposed, changed and diminished by the journey but still tall, taller than the average human but not supernaturally so. His hair, once a floating wreath of angelic blond curls around his face, had turned black at some time, jet black, an almost shiny black that curled around his ears, dipping onto his neck. His skin remained pale, slashed and bleeding in places, scarred along his stomach and his arms. The wings, the blood now scabbed over, feathers matted and smashed, rose up behind him - not the glory they had been, but still damn impressive. And, Islington noted, utterly and totally not human. Unearthly. No wonder the man had stared.

He let go and his consciousness snapped back into the body, leaving him winded. He must be more weakened than he thought, if that was so hard.

Islington sat down in the sand, suddenly exhausted. Clothes. Humans expected clothes, he needed to be wearing clothes. He could do this. A curl of hair fell over his eye, black now, as black as he'd ever seen human hair.

A slow smirk started to spread over the angel's face. Well. If that was the way it was going to be.

The sand around him started to spin and whirl, coalescing and coming together, becoming solid, running over his body in scrapes and whorls. Islington closed his eyes to the bright sun - maybe he needed sunglasses? Humans wore sunglasses in the desert, that was normal. The glass wouldn't cohere right, though, so he abandoned the project and stood up.

He was wearing black, all black, black jeans and black t-shirt and a swirling swooping black leather coat to top it all off, a coat that went down to his knees and flowed out behind him, and most importantly, covered the wings.

Mostly. He would have to do something about the wings.

Islington concentrated, and felt the air around him whistle and whisper as his wings went incorporeal. Now he was just flesh and bone and sinew, fabric and leather, and he was so tired, so weak. What had happened to him? This should not be so difficult.

Now wingless and clothed and looking almost human, Islington rolled over in the sand and did something he had never done for the thousand thousand years he had existed - he went to sleep.

+++

Richard stalked through a dank tunnel, his broadsword still slung in its scabbard over his shoulder, but his hand hovering over the hilt. He was ready. He was always ready for whatever was around the next turn. He paused by an open grate, peaking around the corner once furtively, before taking the corner and continuing down the way.

A sound came from deeper in the corridor, barely a splash. But it was enough. Richard took off in the direction of the noise. He was getting close, he could feel it. This was what he lived for now, the rush of blood, of anticipation, as he neared his prey.

This particular hunting trip had started out differently than it was now.  A great saber-toothed tiger had been ransacking the lower reaches of the sewers. Just one of those mighty teeth worn around his neck would be a great source of pride. The tiger was said to be guarding a great treasure, worth more than all the gold in London Below. And Richard wanted it. For himself. But mostly for the glory. He had a great figure to live up to after all; Hunter was a hard act to follow.

But after a few weeks of following tracks and triangulating locations to find its nest, Richard had stumbled onto something else. Something better. He was not exactly sure what it was, but in London below, those were often the best finds. And it was always just a step ahead of him.

Richard rounded a corner and found himself at a fork in the tunnels. Two paths lay before him. He stopped, pausing to take a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he focused his mind and listened.

Not a sound.

When he opened his eyes again, there were not just two paths, but three. Something new. This was less a corridor in the tunnels under the city and more of an archway, leading someplace that had not been there before.

Door? He thought to himself, the only one he knew of that could create, fabricate, ways. But that made no sense. Last he had heard, she was leagues away.

Richard resisted the urge building up inside himself to laugh. He drew his sword out, the metal making a satisfying swoosh as it came from its holder. He held it up in front of his eyes, the light glistening off the blade, pleased. This could be dangerous, after all, following a corridor that did not exist. But that would not stop him, the idea of danger.

With a shrug and a grin, he took off, down into the arch. It did, after all, offer the biggest adventure.  

+++

Islington had loved one city in his life, and that city had fallen beneath the waves. He had never loved another, he thought, but as he walked through Marrakech and Marseille, Tunis and Turin, he began to suspect that, after all his time there, he had managed to love London. These cities seemed cheap imitations, too gaudy and loud or too silent and solemn, none of them alive the way London was, his London. London had belonged to him, for all he had fought to escape it. Now he was heading back there, to the place he had so longed to leave, and he found he was happy about it 

People stared at him in the street, but less now. His clothing was starting looking more worn and real, less like light in the shape of leather and fabric and more like actual clothes. His wings were hidden, and he no longer glowed. He looked like a human to most, he thought. A tall, fierce, angry human clad in leather, but a human.

At first, when people stared at him, he had stared back, but he grew tired of their reaction. There was something in his eyes, something the humans could see, something they didn't like. He had pulled his consciousness out of his body one night and looked at his eyes, but there had been nothing strange there, just a blue-green color and a black pupil. What did they see? What made them start and run away, their heads down? He looked in windows and mirrors, wondering if this thing was only there when his consciousness was, but he couldn't see it. Finally he picked some reflective sunglasses off a stand in Paris. If he couldn't see what was in his eyes, no one else should either.

Rome Below was the only place he had lingered, spent any more time than necessary moving through, on his way to London. He wandered the streets, cramped and shabby like London's, years of people and their history pushing in on all sides. Rome Below was surprisingly organized and formalized; he wondered if each city's Below developed as an opposite to the world Above. Walking through the market, he had felt whispers around him, a heightened attention, and seen an order of monks in grey cloaks staring at him, as if they knew who he was.

Islington darted out of the market then, and above ground, as fast as he could. It would not do to be recognized, not now, not at all. There were many...beings who would be interested to know he was on earth again, and Islington wanted none of them to know. Not until he got what he came for. Revenge was the only thing he was thinking of. When he had dealt with Richard Mayhew, and with Door, then, then he would figure out his future.

Islington brushed past a British tourist on the street in his haste to escape. "Oi!" said the man. "What are you playing at in that getup, you some kind of Hell's Angel?"

Islington stopped, considering.

"In fact," said Islington. "No. But you are not far off."

And he took off his sunglasses and stared at the man until he ran off.

+++

Immediately once through the arch, it became clear to Richard that he was no longer in the tunnels under London. He was in a grand cavern, a domed ceiling high overhead and ornately painted with reds and purples. Richard took a step forward and the sound of his heel on the marble tiles echoed and reverberated loudly.

Surely, Richard thought, he had now lost any and all element of surprise he might have had as the pursuer. So much for his hunt. He was announced, the click of his boot on the shining floor giving away his position.  

The old Richard, the one who lived in London Above, would have been worried about tracking the mud and sewage from the tunnels onto such a nice floor. But for right now that was not his biggest concern.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, different from the dark under the city, he began to notice more of where he was. Abandoned, was his first thought. Why would someone open an arch and send him to an empty space such as this? He looked back to where he came from and was not surprised to see his way out had disappeared. Of course it had. He would have to find another way.

Squinting, Richard thought he saw a movement. He strode across the room, making haste, not wanting to be there longer than needed. On a raised platform at the far edge of the room was a chair. And on that chair sat a woman.  

He looked at the woman in front of him curiously. Really, she seemed to be more of a girl. There was something familiar about her, but it took Richard just a moment to put his finger on what it was. She looked like Door, the same crinkles along the bridge of her nose, the same expressive eyes. But these eyes were not full of the friendship and care he normally saw from Door. They were full of panic and fear. Terror.

A closer look revealed, to Richard’s shock, that that the girl was not so much sitting on the chair as she was tied to it. Her hands were manacled behind her and her legs to the feet of her seat. She was there against her will, that much was clear, possibly a prisoner. Or a hostage.

Could this be Portia? After Door searched for her sister for so long, was it possible he had just stumbled upon her by accident? But he did not have time to contemplate this. Because there was a loud cracking sound accompanied by a surge of pain to the back of Richard’s neck.

Then everything fell to black.


	2. Chapter 2

It felt a little silly to Islington to be stalking through a field of flowers, particularly while wearing a black leather coat and being, as he was, a deposed, fallen angel turned evil. It was just a little too...on the nose. Cliché. But it had been right there, one big expanse of yellow dots on green grass, open and inviting, swaying in the sun, and Islington couldn't help himself. It wasn't out of his way. One could even argue that it was on the way, as he was headed to Oxford anyway, and the field was right there. Next to it. In his path, even.

Islington's long legs crushed buttercups as he walked, and his coat slithered out behind him like a shadow. When he reached the edge of the wood, he looked back. A dark trail ran through the field where he had been, cutting through the flowers like a blaze, brown and gloomy and dead-looking amid the riot of nature and life and sunlight.

Islington grinned, his face now in shadow, his teeth white in the darkness of the wood. That had definitely been worth it.

Later, having done what he came to Oxford to do, Islington walked along the main street of the town, watching the people bustle, feeling the years of history beneath his feet, the catacombs and foundations and stones, the rooms forgotten and the tunnels unexplored. He liked Oxford, he thought. Maybe he would visit it, in the future, after London. His head cocked - future. After London. What would that be?

Something smelled really good up ahead. Really good. What was that? Spice and meat and protein, the stench of charcoal burning and gasoline. Islington shook his head. Now he was distracted, and, something else. Something physical, in his body. His throat, and stomach. Hungry?

Angels don't need to eat. In his citadel, Islington ate and drank around humans, because it made them feel comfortable. He drank wine and ate perfumed flowers, because it seemed like what angels should do. But he didn't need it, it was nothing physical. This was new. Maybe it would be fun, he thought, to eat something. And it smelled so good. Where was that coming from? Up ahead, that little metal van.

And so the Angel Islington purchased a curry.

He walked in a daze, eating it. This was incredible. Every bite was full of sensations, tastes, but also smell and sight and touch. And the taste! A billion flavors, all rolled into one, hot and spicy and savory, tastes he didn't know the words for. It was mind-blowing. Did people eat like this all the time? Was this why they did it so often? It was just, so much!

"Going to London, mate?" said a voice at his side.

"Indeed," said Islington, still chewing.

"Well you best get on, the bus leaves in ten minutes."

Islington looked up. He was indeed standing next to a bus, a large grey one with "X90" written on it's side. A bus to London. Why not.

"And throw out the wrapper when you're finished with that, I'll not have rubbish all over my bus," said the man as Islington walked by him, up the steps to the bus seats.

By the time the bus started moving Islington had finished his curry and was staring out the window at Oxford's lights as they went by in the dark. Maybe he would sleep. He hadn’t done it since that night in the desert, but he had sort of enjoyed the process, and there was nothing else to do now. When he woke up, he would be in London.

+++

_The only sound in the room is the constant click-clack of the ancient projector. The reel is old and rusted, and clearly has not been watched in ages. But all evidence points to the fact that it does still work. On the screen in front of him, a black and white film plays. It is silent, there are no words, but Richard is having no trouble following the story. Mostly because it is His story._

_All around, the theater is dark, pitch black. All the other seats are completely empty. And there are other seats, endless rows and columns of them, never ending. Richard cannot see the walls, cannot see where the room ends, like the reflection in a mirror in a fun house. Seat after seat. Forever. For all Richard knows, this is all there is left in the world. One dark theater filled with stadium seating. Perfect conditions, he thinks, for viewing such a film. Richard is alone in the room, sitting in the center of the front row._

_The scene on the screen is one Richard knows well. The silence does not matter. He does not need words because he knows them all already, by heart._

_He is facing the final challenge, with the Black Friars. He is the one that must face the last task. The Key is the only thing that matters, the Richard on the screen can only see one step ahead, does not think about trickery or hidden plans._

_Richard can see himself in the pictures, looking younger and naïve. He wants to yell at the man in the movie. He wants to tell him not to be a fool. But it will do no good._

_“They are protecting the key,” he hollers, unable to stop himself._

_And somehow, it seems to make a difference. Because Film-Richard stops and turns, looking right into the camera. Right into the audience. Right at Richard. For a moment it seems like their eyes meet. Two identical pairs, separated only by time and knowledge and the reality of a movie. Frowning, Film-Richard shakes his head firmly._

_“Shhh, be quiet,” says a voice, a deep and powerful lilt._

_The voice is familiar, but it is not Richard’s own. The voice is everything. And although the voice has clearly come from the screen, Film-Richard’s lips have not moved. And there is no one else in the frame._

_Then a crack!_

_A snap. It is a terrible noise, a heart stopping and terror inducing splinter. Richard jumps in his seat and winces at the noise, without intention, surprised to hear anything in the previously silent room. The sound of bone breaking._

_Instinctively, Richard clasps his hands together, holding onto his own fingers. He is remembering the feeling he had the last time he heard such a sound. His own finger, now long since healed, breaking. But the noise is a reminder and Richard can feel it still, like a phantom pain._

_On screen, Film-Richard’s mouth is now moving, but there are still no words to hear. Film-Richard looks concerned, worried and he is gesturing emphatically as he talks. Clearly he has a message he is trying to pass on, but Richard does not understand what it is. The sound must be offset incorrectly, because it is not until the man on the movie stops talking that Richard hears a voice say, “Wake up! You must wake up!”_

“Wake up! You must wake up!” Portia yelled at the unconscious man.

+++

There were still people loyal to Islington in London Below. Well, maybe "people" was a strong word, but they were there. Hidden in the shadows of the shadows, the parts of London Below that even it's oldest inhabitants didn't know about. People who owed Islington...favors. People who made promises a long, long time ago. People who were scared of what Islington could do, even now, and those who were even more scared of what he would not do. He had conversations wearing different bodies and different faces, always with the promise and the hint that the Angel Islington might, possibly, maybe be aware of the fact that this conversation was taking place and that there could be consequences stemming from it, never letting it be known for sure that he was back. This was his city, even now.

His city, and it was still the same. Of course, for these people it had only been a year since he left, even if it had been far longer for him. London Below continued as it always had, not missing its guardian-turned-betrayer in the least. Islington was almost offended. He had changed so much since he'd been here last, and yet, there was the Market, there was Earl's Court and the bridges and the river and the islands and everything, just as he had left it.

Well, not just as he had left it. Apparently, infuriatingly, Richard Mayhew lived in London Below now. And, Islington learned, Richard Mayhew was some sort of hero now. The one who had lied and betrayed him, tricked him, sent him spinning into darkness and robbed him of his entire life and existence - he was a warrior, they said. Richard Mayhew, slaying beasts and demons and monsters. And fallen angels, Islington thought.

He had meant to go after the Lady Door first, had thought her the more urgent and practical enemy, the one who had actually sent him off to the ends of the earth, but no. Not now. Revenge had been like twin stars in his mind, the lights that had pushed him this far, one “Door” and one "Richard Mayhew." But now Door's light was fading, guttering, and Richard's was growing, a planet, a sun, blocking out everything else Islington could think of. Richard Mayhew, The Warrior. The hero. Richard Mayhew who had proven himself worthy of The Key, who had drank wine in Islington's citadel, who had been a few feet away, his pale arms hanging from his chains, blood from his own broken bone running down his face, and laughed, laughed, as Islington was wrested away from this earth, sent into the void, defeated. The light behind his eyes nearly blinded him, was all he could see. Richard Mayhew would die.

Islington had been trying to save his strength, but he was exhausted. Every new disguise took more out of him, made him more tired when he let it go and snapped back into what he was thinking of as his 'own' body now, the tall pale one with the black hair. It should not be this difficult to deceive these stupid mortals, these scared half wits, and yet every glamour drained him more. The last time he had snapped back his wings had been visible and someone could have seen them and recognized him; he was getting tired, and sloppy. And the last person he had to go to would be the hardest. He had all the information he wanted on Richard Mayhew, and now he needed to know exactly where he was. To do that, he had to visit The Canary, and he was not looking forward to it.

But, as it turned out, he didn't. On the third day Islington was in London, Richard Mayhew got himself _trapped_.

Trapped! The Warrior himself, tricked and stolen by one of Islington’s own allies, of all things. All of London Below was talking about it. It was hilarious, if also infuriating. If they managed to kill Richard Mayhew before Islington got a chance to kill him, he was going to be incredibly angry.

Islington made himself and his wings invisible, and flew across London.

+++

“Wake up! You must wake up,” Portia yelled at the unconscious man.

Slowly Richard’s eyes fluttered open, returning to the real world. The room around him was spinning unsteadily on its axis. Or at least that was how it seemed. He was lying on the ground, on his back, at Portia’s feet. Someone must have moved him, that was not where he was when he fell.

Fell. The thought reminded him of what had happened. He had not just fallen, he had been struck down. His hand went to the back of his neck, remembering, and he nearly cried out in pain at the touch. Apparently he was still rather sore where he had been hit, and something else. He felt a sticky warmth against his hand he had not been expecting. Pulling his hand away, Richard saw that it was covered in blood.

Richard blinked a few times, trying to get the room into focus. Everything seemed a bit blurry but in the same place he recalled from before he was hit. He could see Portia above him, looking at him anxiously, waiting for him to say something. He obliged. “Where are we?”

“Inside Marble Arch,” she said quickly, seeming happy for him to be speaking, “As far as I can tell.”

“And,” Richard hesitated, not wanting to seem rude, “why exactly am I here?”

She gave him a look which suggested this was a ridiculous question, “I opened a portal, every chance I had, hoping someone would come through to save me. And you did. Well, the first bit anyway.”

Tentatively, Richard sat up. He did not see whoever it was that had incapacitated him, so now seemed like a good time as ever to get out of there. “Best get on with the saving then, I suppose,” he said while lumbering up onto his feet. He swayed for a moment, sticking out his hands, but quickly regained his center of gravity.

“Thank you,” Portia seemed genuine.

“How long,” Richard asked, as he went to begin to try and undo Portia’s bonds, “by the way, have you been here?”

His sword had been laid out next to him and he picked it up and began to saw what held her to the chair. It was slow going. But Portia was patient enough, “Months, maybe. I have lost track of the time. Before that I was moved around quite a bit, never in one place for more than a day or so.”

Richard nodded. This made sense. Surely Door would have checked such a place already. They would have had to have kept her on the move to stay hidden. London was a huge city, easy to disappear in, but to stay missing for years took real effort. Sooner or later, everything seems to connect, to come back around. “Who?” he asked, wanting to know who could have kept her for so long.

“It was us”, came a voice, or rather, a chorus of voices speaking all at once the same words, from behind him.

Turning, Richard had to hold in a gasp at what he saw. He had grown used to London Below and the oddities it held. But this was something else. One body, a woman’s by the look of it, with seven heads vying for space on top. She was clothed in a gauzy white billowing gown. Each head seemed to move of its own accord, blinking and opening its mouth and licking its lips. “What the hell?” Richard muttered, unable to help himself.

“We are The Seven Sisters,” the heads all spoke again, the sound almost just a hiss of air.


	3. Chapter 3

Flying was glorious, even more so than Islington had remembered. Trapped in the citadel for millennia, he had not stretched his wings in...since he could remember. It took a fair amount of strength to remain invisible, but it was worth it for the air on his wings, the starlight filtering down through the hair that fell into his eyes, the river below him, black and reflective in the evening light. Islington swooped and soared and almost forgot where he was going. He felt alive, present in his body, in his own muscles and sinews and feathers. It was intoxicating, delicious, almost like eating had been. Bodies, he thought. Such strange things, but they had their joys.

He spiraled through the sky, looping lazily down to land on the top of the marble arch, slipping slightly on the smooth surface. The inhabitants of London Above saw, from this angle, a white arch, a single structure. But for the inhabitants of Below, the arches extended in all directions, every arch that had even been there, or could have been there, or would have been there if it had gotten built. Every dream of an arch in a Londoner's eye existed here, but only if you were on the top of the real one, and knew where to look.

Islington debated whether to become visible again or not; he was getting tired, but he didn't know what he might find when he got inside. Deciding he could leave it for a bit longer, he watched the skylight in front of him open, seemingly by itself as he lifted it with an invisible arm, and dropped inside.

Inside the arch(es) it was damp and cool, echoing. And empty. Stone rooms extended in all directions, huge caverns with nothing in them but dirt on the floor and the occasional flapping of wings. Islington felt a pang in his stomach, quick and sharp and surprising. It reminded him of the Citadel. He had hated that place, but maybe you couldn't spend so much time somewhere and not learn to love it, a little bit. Just like London.

Empty caverns and cold stone, but no Richard Mayhew. Nobody at all, actually.

Islington started walking, trying to sense where people were. He walked through one room, then two, all the same, vast and cold and dark, empty. The ceilings were differently molded, the columns different styles, but they were all empty and cold and vast. Finally in the third room, Islington's supernatural hearing picked up something. A voice, a hiss. Something shuffling on the floor. Maybe two rooms over. Islington walked fast.

This room was equally big and equally cold, but it was lit, and there were people in it. Two people, and a beast. Talking.

Islington crept closer, silent on the cold ground, invisible. That girl...was that the Lady Door? Had he found both of his quarries at once? How convenient, he could accomplish all his goals in one roaring explosion. But, no, this girl was smaller, thinner, her hair longer, her eyes a different color. Portia.

Portia. Ah, right.

Islington had not wanted his plan of escape to fail. He had constructed it very carefully, and he had made sure he had alternate options. The things he should have planned for - trickery and deceit and lying and Richard Mayhew - he had not thought of at all. Portia, however, had been part of the plan. He had stashed her with the Seven Sisters, who owed him favors, and he realized, he had not thought of her since the day Door brought him The Key. Apparently, after all that, they still had her. He really did not care.

What he did care about was the other figure, the man facing the beast with seven heads, holding a sword in his hand and glaring as if he was going to do something with it. Richard Mayhew had changed in the time Islington had been gone. The softness about him, that sense of coddled care that hung about the residents of London Above, was gone, replaced by something fiercer, something wilder. His eyes, piercing blue in his pale face, shone with a kind of malevolence, an excitement and recklessness that he had not had before. His ivory white skin was streaked with dirt and, Islington thought, possibly blood. He was thinner, too - everyone in London Below was - but strong, taut muscles showed under his woven clothes, jumping and twitching with a nervous energy as he stared at the seven heads in front of him. A more formidable opponent, Islington thought, than he had remembered. Well. That would just make it all the sweeter when he went down. 

Richard was talking to the Sisters, it seemed. "What did you plan to do with her, then?"

Seven heads hissed back at him, seven pairs of eyes scowling and blinking, their differences becoming more apparent as Islington got closer, creeping along the back of the room. Some eyes looked bored, some angry, at least one set seemed to not be paying attention at all. "We have it," said the beast. "And people want it. We will hold it until we get what we want."

"It's not an it!" said Richard. "She's a girl!" He sounded indignant, following with a disbelieving chuckle. Islington scowled. That twit and his stupid Scottish accent. Every single thing he said was twisted around those insipid consonants, those guttural vowels. And that little laugh he had, that he always used when he was surprised? Did he have to have to chuckle at everything? It was infuriating, it was irritating, it was...

It was completely adorable, is what it was.

Islington froze. What? Had he just - what? Did he really just think that? He wanted to throttle his own consciousness, and maybe he would, shoving it out of that body and yelling at it. Richard Mayhew was not adorable, Richard Mayhew was hateful and ruinous and human.

And also staring directly at him, his eyes wider and bluer than Islington would have thought possible. Portia's eyes were aimed at him, too, and all fourteen of the Sisters’.

Blast and waves. He had been so startled at his own thoughts that he had dropped his invisibility and not even noticed.

+++

Facing the Seven Sisters, sword over his head, Richard was prepared to fight. He took in the sight in front of him as fully as he could, noting every detail. He needed to find their weakness, figure out the quickest way to defeat them. A sword through the heart killed a remarkable number of things, and he was fairly certain it would do the trick here. Normally lopping off a beast’s head was a surefire way end a life, but this one had seven, and Richard suspected it would be less effective.

Across from him, Richard could see the Seven Sisters were also sizing him up. He hoped he looked terrifying. He hoped the very sight of him was causing them to tremble and regret the very moment he stepped into their lair.

Yet, as he watched, the eyes of all the heads shifted off of him, just a little to the left. And they grew wide. Every single one, suddenly filled with the very fear Richard had wanted to cause himself. Then there was the sound of an intake of breath, or rather breaths. Every single mouth on every single head of the beast was gasping.

Richard shot his eyes over to Portia, to see what she was doing. Now free from her chair, she was standing just to his side, looking ready to battle as well.

But Portia was looking at the same thing as the Seven Sisters, her eyes huge, as if it was her worst nightmare realized. Even having spent a year held captive, this was something else, something worse.

Slowly, Richard pivoted on his foot, turning to look where the rest of the room was staring.

He wished he hadn’t almost immediately.

There, partially hidden in the shadows of the columns on the outskirts of the room, was the one man, the one otherworldly creature who haunted Richard’s every thought. Sometimes, when Richard closed his eyes, he could still hear the low rumble of laughing, mocking and deep and malevolent. The one who had begun it all, who had started Richard’s first adventure. In all of his glory, was none other than The Angel Islington.

He looked different, the Islington there in the room, than the one Door had tricked into the far-away place all those months ago. His hair was different, black, so dark and all encompassing, like ink spilled onto a blank bit of parchment. But there was no question. This was the Angel, fallen, who had once been trapped, who Richard had helped free, who Richard had helped destroy.

And just like that, the seven headed woman behind Richard no longer seemed to matter. Even Portia, who Richard wanted to free and wanted to return to her sister, faded into the back. Because all there was left in the world was Richard and Islington.

Islington’s head was tilted forward, his eyes, glowing orbs of molten metal, hidden in the shadows of his hair, which was unkempt and wild around his head. The pale light of the room hit his face, illuminating the angles of his sharp cheeks, making the already terrifying man seem even more dangerous. He was nothing but light and shadow and sharp edges, laying in wait, watching and observing.

Richard had a moment of pure panic. Islington was there, with the Seven Sisters, who were holding Portia. Memories of his first adventure in London Below flooded back and Richard could not help but wonder. Was this part of the plan all along? Had they just played into Islington’s hand? How much had Door prevented?

Because here was Islington, free and full of vengeance.

Without another thought, Richard hoisted the sword, lifting his elbow, “AHHHHHHHHHHH,” he cried, sounding as fierce as he could manage. And he charged forward. 

+++

Islington had a moment of confusion as Richard Mayhew ran at him, with a sword. He was still thrown about being visible, and feeling very, very unsettled about what his mind was apparently thinking. And now here was Richard Mayhew, his longtime nemesis, the one man Islington had been thinking about for months, years, he didn't know, running straight at him, the tendons on his neck taut under his skin, hair falling into those piercing eyes, a dirty stained sword in his hands. Sword, yes. Islington stirred himself enough to unfold his wings - no point hiding them now, everyone here had seen them before - and fluttered them slightly, lifting himself high enough in the air to watch Richard Mayhew rocket by beneath him, his momentum nearly making him careen into a pillar.

"Hello, Richard," said Islington.

Richard spun around and looked up, his eyes impossibly wide and blue, staring at Islington in the air. Islington let himself do a few lazy shuffles in the air, swooping back and forth while he decided on his next move. Portia was staring up at him too, her hands moving somehow at her sides, her mouth working like she was talking under her breath. The Sister's eyes were rolling and moving in their heads - were they afraid of him, too? Islington tried to remember if he'd tried to kill the Seven Sisters before. No? Probably not? They were in his domain, they were mythan creatures, they had owed him fealty. Not that any of that mattered now.

He floated back down, keeping his wings out and at their fullest expanse. The feathers he had lost in his travels had grown back, many of them shiny and glossy and black, so his wings were now the usual white with black edging, a heavy dark line below the ethereal fluttering.

"What are you doing here?" asked Richard, the sword hanging at an angle in his hand, sweat glistening on his forehead. He seemed to be panting. "Door...Door sent you away."

"She did," said Islington, letting his voice echo on the pillars and columns. He wasn't quite the mythical beast he had been last time they spoke, but no reason for Richard to know that so soon. "But there is nowhere so far that I cannot get back from. There is nowhere in this universe that I cannot reach."

"Why did you come back?" said Richard. He still had to tilt his head to look up at Islington's face, and the angel could see the pulse throbbing in his throat, the dark rush of blood under the pale skin.

Islington grinned down at him, staring right into those endless blue eyes, as wide and deep as the reaches of space he had flown through. Let Richard see whatever was in Islington’s eyes that made the humans run away. "Why, for you, Richard Mayhew."

Richard's mouth opened to say something but at that moment there was a flash of white light and Portia was yelling, "Richard, run, the opening, go!" Islington whipped around towards the light - a door, there was a door in the pillar now, Portia had made an Opening and she was running through it, screaming for Richard, who was turning towards her now, away from Islington.

"No!!" The angel screamed. Not this time, not again. His hand shot out - he was still fast, faster than any human - and grabbed Richards wrist, the arm that didn’t hold the sword, tight. He could feel Richard's bones under his fingers, the soft place where his vein was in the front, the skin sliding under him as Richard struggled to get free.

"Richard!!" Portia yelled, most of her through the doorway, almost gone.

+++

The portal was closing fast and Portia was disappearing with it, only her hand now visible through the opening. Richard dropped his sword so that he could reach out with the arm not currently being held by Islington, trying to grab a hold of her fingers, to make a connection with her. But Islington’s grasp on his wrist was too strong. He could feel the angel’s finger’s tightening, so much so that he feared the bones of his wrist might snap under the force. 

Richard leaned forward, straining against the thin fingers which circled his pulse, struggling to get to Portia. But the effort was futile. “Portia!” he cried out, as the last of the doorway blinked out of existence.

The sound of his shout echoed hollowly around the room. The girl was gone, at least, finally free and away from those who had held her for so long. If nothing else, Richard could take solace in the fact that Door and her sister would finally be reunited, that Door’s search was finally over. There was some consolation for him in that.

Behind him, Richard could feel a heavy exhalation of breath on the nape of his neck. He turned and looked at Islington. The angel had a peculiar look of concentration on his face, or maybe it was concern. Richard was having a hard time working out what Islington was thinking. But he could tell there was some relief mixed in, a small amount of victory, as if he had just won a prize. And Richard supposed he had, because Portia, the only way out, was gone. Richard was alone now, surrounded by unfriendly faces.

“You have failed me,” Islington said, but he was not facing Richard.

In fact, he had dropped Richard’s hand altogether, now that there was no place for him to go. Richard’s wrist hurt, the vice grip which had held him had been strong and not terribly careful. He glanced down at it briefly and winced. It was bruising already, the pale skin contrasting starkly with the blossoming purple and blue.

The heads of the Seven Sisters hissed in response, “We are your loyal servants. We did as you bid. We held the girl.”

Islington beat his wings once, propelling himself forward. Then, in one swift motion, he picked up Richard’s sword from where it lay abandoned on the ground and threw it at the beast. With a horrible solid thud noise, the sword was buried deep into the chest of the Seven Sisters. Right in the heart.

All seven heads looked down in unison, shock showing on all of the faces. And then the body fell backward in a faint, dead. It hit the ground with a heavy clatter, blood pooling around the body quickly. Richard watched with shock, at the precision of the hit, how it had landed perfectly in its mark and how quickly the fabled Seven Sisters were gone.

Now there were only the two of them in the vast room. Richard and Islington. A man and an angel. 

Islington’s wings were extended fully, and he was floating just a few inches off the ground, his wings fluttering ever so slightly, so that he was not moving. Richard was struck suddenly with just how majestic the angel looked, how terrifying and beautiful.

It was not just Islington’s wings, either. His eyes, just slightly farther apart than Richard would have expected, were wide and an unearthly clear shade of silvery-blue. Richard could not help but stare into them; he could not tear his eyes away from the cold gaze.

The last time Richard had seen Islington, when Door had tricked him into the wrong door, Richard had not taken the time to note just how chiseled Islington’s cheekbones were. How they protruded from his face, sharp razor edges, prominent and harsh. Richard had been so busy feeling betrayed and scared that he had missed much. He had missed the surprising and undeniable raw beauty of the fallen angel, his form and his face and his features.

As Richard’s eyes fell to Islington’s apple-red lips, he noticed that they were moving. Islington was talking. He shook his head to clear it and listened in.

“…for long enough,” Islington was seething in the direction of the fallen body, “and I will not let it stand any longer.”

+++

"And I will not let it stand any longer," said Islington, looking down at the body of the Seven Sisters. He pulled out the sword, long and sharp and covered in blood, and tossed in across the room, scowling. In actuality, he had to admit, the Sisters had not done anything they weren't asked to do. They were Islington's servants and thus he had been responsible for them, owed them some protection. But that had been then, when Islington was part of the city, part of its systems of castes and baronys, it's rules and levels. Now, he wasn't. Now he was a wild thing, a fallen angel, an exile and a criminal, and he didn't care anymore about loyalty and fealty and alliances and sides. The Sisters had been in the way, and now they were dead. 

Islington felt the rush of bloodlust through his veins, the life and power that the Sisters had had flowing into him, their mythan magic and energy becoming his. It was heady, glorious, ripples of power streaming down his body, quivering under his skin, boosting his own magic, taking away all the exhaustion he had been feeling and replacing it with a crackling energy, a caged dynamism waiting to go somewhere. He threw back his head and laughed, sending sparks of white-blue light up from his teeth. With a little concentration he turned the sparks black, black like his hair was now, and his wings. He sent arcs of black light shooting through the echoing room, darkening it and brightening it in turn, zooming past Richard's wide eyes and making him wince.

Richard. Islington lowered himself to the ground again and strode over to the human, stopping only inches away and looking at him, his eyes raking over his face, his torso, his long arms and the pale skin at his throat. Richard flinched, but his eyes were steady, islands of sky in the dark, watching Islington. He looked frightened, but resolved. His chest was moving under his wool shirt, rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. Islington traced the line of his collarbones with his eyes, the ridges of the bone visible through his shirt and then peeking out above the neckline, a thin spur of bone, like a sandbar in the ocean. His neck was pale and covered in what must be freckles, little dots of color that spattered up the tendons of his throat, clustered in bunches over his clavicles, trailed down under the collar of his sweater. Islington wanted to touch them, to see if those little points of color stayed that way as the skin around them reddened or bruised under his fingers. Mayhew's skin was so pure, so pale, so unblemished, endless pure white like Islington's wings had once been. He wanted to dip his hands into that paleness, stain it black and blue and red, sully that whiteness, darken it, make a mark and leave it there, permanently.

Richard's hands were clasped, the fingers of one hand circling the wrist of the other, the wrist Islington had held. He was massaging the skin where it had bruised, the purplish-blue spots where Islington's fingers had held him, where they had touched. Richard was staring back at him, his jaw tight, his mouth a resolute line that opened as Islington watched, lips parting, his tongue flicking out and licking his lips. Islington watched those red lips move, all that blood pulsing through them, turning the flesh pink and glistening.

"What are you going to do with me?" Richard asked. Islington watched his mouth move, watched the lines in his neck bob, saw his wrists return to his sides, his fingers in fists. He looked at his eyes, so blue and bright in his face. What was in those eyes that made him different, Islington wondered. Why did Richard Mayhew's eyes inspire trust and compassion and the will to help, while Islington's eyes made humans run screaming and cover their faces? Not Richard, though. Richard stared back at him, unblinking, black pupils in an ice blue circle, a slight fluttering at his temple, the heartbeat under the skin. Islington imagined putting his hand there, flattening that pulse with his own long fingers, stopping it. What would happen to Richard's eyes then? Would the light go out, would that thing that made people trust him go away, would those eyes stop staring?

Islington was zoned enough on Richard's eyes and face and fingers that he almost missed what he'd said, the words penetrating slowly into his mind. What was he going to do with Richard Mayhew? He had thought about that so many times in the eons that had passed, and had so many answers. Now he had a new one, one he hadn’t thought of before, but as soon as he thought of it he knew this was what he wanted, and this was what he was doing now, reaching a hand to Richard's jaw and bringing his face closer, leaning his own head now, putting his lips to Richard's incredibly bright, red, alive ones and kissing him, kissing as hard as he could and he didn't know why and he didn't know what he was doing next but this was what he wanted now, just this.

Richard made a noise against him, a sound of surprise and maybe pain but Islington didn't care. It turned out kissing was incredible, like flying or like eating but so much better, so much better, his whole body was running with it, with energy and power and magic and blood. He could feel it singing in his veins and pulsing out through his fingers, the fingers that lay against Richard's neck, hot and smooth under him. And Richard's lips were so warm and wet and hot and now they were opening, opening under his, letting him in even as Richard's body remained tense and taut against him. Islington gasped forward, sucking at Richard's lips now, taking as much as he could all at once and it felt amazing, he could feel it in every nerve in his tongue and arms and legs and his stomach and his wings and he wanted more, more, so much more, until there was nothing left.

+++

Richard Mayhew could not breathe. His lungs felt as if they were full of fire, scorching his whole body from the inside out.  Pain. But also a certain degree of pleasure. He did not want it to stop, not exactly, he just wanted to catch a pant of air.

The pressure against his lips was firm. Richard could feel them giving way against him, pushing in harder, leaving no space between them. With a gasp, Richard opened his lips, hoping for a breath to fill his lungs with the oxygen they so needed. But Richard was not in control of this kiss, not at all, and as his mouth parted it was for more than just the air he so badly needed.

This was not at all what Richard had been expecting to happen when he and Islington were alone. He had thought there might be a fight. Maybe a conversation. He did not understand what was happening, but he knew how it felt. It felt good.

He felt strong hands on his neck, fingers gracing over his throat. They paused on his pulse, on the constant beating of his heart, pounding in his neck, speeding up more and more with every second. Just one grip, Islington only had to tighten his hand, and Richard’s throat would be crushed. The angel had the power of life and death over him, he always did. Now he literally held Richard’s life in his hand, and he seemed to know it and relish in it.

Ever since he had become a hunter, Richard had learned he had a certain proclivity for that moment when his life was on the line. That second in a fight when it could go either way. The rush of blood through his veins, his pulse speeding up, adrenaline taking over, as his body prepared to fight. And now, standing there with Islington, it was that feeling stretched out infinitely.

The pad of Islington’s thumb hit a sensitive spot on his throat, sending a pleasant tingling sensation down into his gut. Richard let out a low gasp, unable to help it. His skin had taken on a life of its own, reacting to Islington’s power.

Flesh against flesh, the skin of the angel felt as if it was lava. Hot and hard and smooth, shifting against Richard’s own in a tantalizing dance. It burned and scorched in a way Richard had never felt before.

Richard raised his hands, putting them onto Islington’s chest, to steady himself. He did not push away. Instead he let his fingers run over the larger man’s chest, feeling and touching. At the collar of Islington’s shirt, he let his hand dip into the hollow. The bone was sharp and the skin taut, and for a second he thought he might cut himself on it.  

Islington suddenly changed course, taking his lips off of Richard’s own. He pulled back just a little and Richard could see his eyes blazing. They looked black for a moment, before Richard saw the thin ring of blue around the enlarged pupils.

Islington seemed like an animal, wild and dangerous. For a moment Richard allowed himself to think about what it would be like to hunt an angel. How would it feel to take Islington’s life. The ultimate conquest. The ultimate Hunt. The ultimate Kill. Something inside of Richard wanted this more than anything, the chance to take the life of a creature such as this.

Then Islington’s head bent to Richard’s neck, his mouth going to the very location his fingers had been at before, and all other thoughts left Richard’s mind. Islington’s lips were sucking and licking at the raw and sensitive flesh.

Richard’s knees buckled and he threw his head back to give Islington better access. Islington used it, adjusting closer to Richard’s pulse. Islington’s tongue was magic, Richard was now sure, he could barely keep from crying out. His hands gripped Islington’s black shirt, knotting it around his fists, using the leverage to support himself.

Thinking was too hard. Richard gave in instead.


	4. Chapter 4

Richard's fingers were digging into Islington's chest, and his head was thrown back, exposing that white throat with it's smattering of freckles and the tendons straining under the skin. That gasp he had made had done something to Islington's whole body, sent rushes of heat and crackling energy all down his torso, right to his groin. The skin of Richard’s neck was so smooth under his tongue, smooth and soft, and Islington could practically taste the heat of his blood running underneath, the pulse in the hollow of his throat. Islington had never wanted anything as badly as he right now wanted to lick that spot, right in the front, the dip where those blood vessels met the bone of his chest, an indentation that Islington practically felt he could store things in. He moved his head to the right and dipped down, kneeling a bit at an awkward angle to get a taste of the skin there, licking, feeling as if he could practically wash away the faint freckles with his tongue, tasting sweat and skin and salt---

_a rush of sea air, the crashing of waves in colors that no longer existed, a child laughing as he ran down the shore to the sea, past swaying trees and fronds, and over and under all this something stirring, something growing, the end, all of this --_

Islington gasped and stepped backwards quickly, out of Richard's grasp, losing his balance and fluttering his wings to remain upright. That sea, that child...it had been years, millennia since he had a memory that vivid, of the ocean of it was all those eons ago, the island he'd lost. The hollow of Richard Mayhow's throat tasted like the sea air in Atlantis. Of course.

Richard was looking at him, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed with confusion. "...Islington?" he asked, tentative. Islington couldn't tell if the hesitation in his voice was nervousness or something else. He couldn't think, hearing Richard Mayhew say his name made his skin tingle and that feeling of wanting came rushing back, more so than ever, but he still felt disoriented, lost between centuries, unsure of where he really was. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"What happened?" said Richard, stepping closer, inches from Islington now.

Islington opened his eyes, staring at the human in front of him. What had happened? He was staring at the man he had sworn to kill and all he wanted to do was lick him, press his hands into that pale neck and feel bruises forming under his fingers, feel those red lips on his own skin.

Richard moved further towards him, his hand going to Islington's hip, resting on the bone there while the other lay against his chest, soft but heavy, his fingers skating across Islington's shirt.

"You know," he said, his voice low, almost a rumble in his chest, the Scottish accent more pronounced, twisting his vowels, "This isn't exactly what I thought was going to happen with my day today." Richard's hand was moving down Islington's chest, his fingers tracing the lines of muscles as he came across them, teasing light touches that made Islington feel increasingly desperate. "When I imagined seeing you again, this wasn't quite what I was picturing."

"You thought you would see me again?" asked Islington, his voice as steady and commanding as he could manage as Richard's hand dipped lower and lower down his torso.

"I wondered," said Richard, tilting his head to the side, watching his hand as it moved across Islington's stomach. "Feared, maybe."

"You should," said Islington. "I travelled all the way back here, thinking of killing you."

Richard’s breathing hitched, and he looked up and into Islington's face. This close, his eyes were even brighter, blue and endless against the hollows under his eyes. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked, as his hand slid under the waistband of Islington's jeans, popping the button and slowly sliding his fingers down the zipper. Islington jerked and twitched, all of his awareness sliding down to his hips now, to Richard' s hand and the heat pooling in his stomach.

"Not - not yet," he said, and he really didn't know what he was going to do with Richard Mayhew except that he knew he needed that hand on his cock, those sharp bones and taut muscles against him, more of everything, immediately and as hard as possible.

"Well that's a relief," said Richard. "Because if I was dead I couldn't do this." And before Islington knew what was happening Richard had dropped to his knees and the hand on his hips was pulling the angel's jeans down and the other hand had grabbed his cock and suddenly Richard's lips were on him, soft and hot and wet and _oh_. Islington's eyes rolled back in his head and his hands went to Richard's shoulders, clutching hard enough to bruise, and he held on for dear life.

+++

On his knees, Richard could barely think, could barely form a cohesive thought about what it was he had decided to do. So, Islington wanted to kill him, was planning it by the sounds of it. That was interesting. The whole situation was interesting. Because Richard wanted to kill Islington. And yet, there they were, engaging in activities that were in no way lethal.

Well, Richard allowed himself a small smirk for a moment, that was only technically true. He felt as if he might die, and from the sounds Islington was making above him, the feeling was mutual.  
Islington’s dick was in his mouth and Richard began to work his tongue against the sensitive underside. He licked in slow, long motions, taking his time. Looking up he saw Islington’s eyes flutter, the glowing orbs now hidden behind long dark lashes.

Flicking his tongue over the glans, Richard was rewarded with Islington’s sharp intake of breath. Against him, Islington’s knees gave just a little, making him leaning in toward Richard.

Richard moved a hand to Islington’s jutting hipbone, steadying himself. He needed something to hold onto, something to keep them both from falling over. They were balanced so precariously, and Richard knew they would both only lose control more as this progressed. Islington seemed to have given in entirely to Richard’s actions, which was just what Richard wanted. Keep the angel distracted from thoughts of killing.

On his shoulders, Richard could feel Islington’s strong hands gripping him. Each finger was white hot, strong and unrelenting. Like a vise, Islington was tightening them one at a time, fraction by fraction, drawing out the action.

Richard could feel the bruises forming on his shoulders. He knew that he would have marks in the shapes of fingers. Ten lines, each individual and yet all together depicting the hold the angel had on his body and his life. The blue and purple would match the already yellowing marks on his wrist, both made by the grasp of Islington.

He increased the pressure and suction of his mouth, slowly sliding his lips up and down Islington’s shaft. Islington gasped, “Aaahh,” and moved his hands from Richard’s shoulders into his hair.

The long slender digits weaved into Richard’s hair, grabbing hold to the locks. It created a thatch of skin and hair, intertwined and knotted together. Richard winced, distracted by the hair being pulled. He pulled back for just a moment and gave Islington a displeased look, “None of that.”

“Richard,” was all Islington said, groaning his name, drawing out the D.

Richard smiled and ducked his head back to where it had been, his lips going to the head of Islington’s dick. With his free hand, Richard began to lightly tug at Islington’s balls.

He could hear Islington’s breath get heavier, all the sudden. He was getting close. A thrill ran through Richard. He was just a man but he could bring an angel to his knees, make him gasp and quiver with pleasure.

He pulled back again, not wanting Islington to come, not yet.

“Fuck,” Islington swore as Richard sat back on his knees.

Islington’s wings were open, spread wide, and fluttering in anticipation. The angel looked wound up, like he was about to spring, like there was barely anything holding him back.

“Please,” Richard said.

+++

Islington's world was spinning. He was standing on earth, on level ground, in an old building in his very own city but he felt like he was again sailing out in space, ricocheting wildly, no center, no bearing, no gravity.

Richard was kneeling on the floor under, looking up at Islington through his lashes, smiling slightly. His mouth was redder than ever, raw, his lips wet and sloppy, and Islington needed to be kissing it, immediately, needed to be touching every part of him, more.

"Up," he said, grabbing Richard's shoulder as the other man gracefully unfolded himself, stood and stared at the angel with an expression in his eyes, something Islington couldn't read and didn't understand. "I want your mouth."

Richard leaned towards him, folding into Islington's arms, his hands clutching at the angel’s black hair. "Um, I think you just had it, Islington," he said, a dry chuckle behind his words. Islington shivered, again. There was something about hearing his own name in Richard's voice, that Scottish tongue folding around his word, that affected him more than he would have ever imagined.

"No, like this," Islington said, not bothering to explain further, lunging for Richard's lips, kissing faster now, with more urgency, his tongue flicking in and around Richard's, teeth bumping teeth, lips sucking and pouting. Richard moaned into him, and Islington paid attention to what made him react, what caused those little noises, what made the pulse under Islington's fingers stutter and beat faster. He felt himself grounding, settling, as if Richard was pulling him back to earth, following the sounds he was making back into himself. When Richard had pulled off him a few minutes ago Islington had nearly killed him right then, he felt so desperate with wanting, but now he was glad. He wanted to be doing this forever, wanted to draw out everything he could, find every little pinprick of skin and clashing of lips that Richard liked. Islington had always been a quick learner, and he couldn't remember ever wanting to know anything as much as he wanted to know how to make Richard Mayhew melt under him.

He ran a hand up and into Richard's hair, shaggy and wavy and soft over his fingers. His other hand wrapped around Richard's shoulders, pulling him closer, running over his back. The wool felt coarse under his fingers, scratchy; he wanted skin, hot flesh he could knead and scratch.

"Clothes," he muttered, under his breath, when he broke away from Richard's mouth to trace the line of his jaw with his teeth.

"Wha," it was less a word than a gasp of breath, "What?" Richard's fingers were tangled in the remnants of Islington's jeans as they fell of his hips, messy and wet. Islington didn’t want him to be touching his clothes, he wanted Richard’s hands on _him_.

Islington concentrated, feeling the power he'd stolen from the Sisters when he killed them coursing through him, and thought very hard even as he ran his nails down Richard's back, thought about particles dissolving and the feel of his fingers on skin, and _pushed_ , and there it was, both he and Richard were totally naked, flesh against flesh in the cool room.

Richard stumbled away from him, his head coming up, eyes wide and slightly fearful. He looked around and down at himself and Islington, pale skin in the shadows of the room, goosebumps forming on his stomach from the cold, his dick exposed to the world. Staring back at Islington, Richard said, "You did that?"

"Yes," said Islington, his own eyes tracing the lines of Richard's stomach, the faint trace of hair that led from his navel down to his erect cock.

"You..." Richard trailed off and Islington looked back to his face. Richard's eyes were still surprised but the fear there was being replaced with something else, something heated. Richard reached out and kissed him, sighing into it, his fingers running down Islington's back until he came to the wings, where they seemed to stop, tentatively reaching out but never quite touching the feathers.

Islington felt he should probably say something, tell Richard he could touch them, or whatever he wanted, but that would mean he would have to stop kissing him, and he had no interest in doing that. Richard naked was even more enticing than Richard with his clothes on, the skin warm and alive against his own, lines of muscle and tendons and bone running just under the skin, his cock sliding against Islington’s hip bone. Islington wanted to lay him out and inspect every inch of him, run his tongue or his fingers across him from top to bottom.

How, though? They were still standing, bent against each other, but that wouldn't work at all. The floor seemed...dirty, the blood from the Seven Sisters seeping across the stone, and besides it was still too far away. Islington pressed further against Richard, feeling his spine bend under his hand, bending him backwards towards the floor, stretching that long pale neck out under him. While he did that he concentrated, just a little, gathering up some of the particles in the air and the debris on the floor and whatever else was around, cohering it and giving it shape, but it was hard to focus when Richard was gasping under him, his nails scrabbling at Islington's back as he felt himself falling, the muscles in his pelvis tightening against Islington's stomach as he tried to stop himself.

Islington let go.

Richard fell a few inches, a look of terror and reproach on his face, and then hit the bed that Islington had conjured up, sinking into the fabric a bit, his face smoothing out and that heated expression coming back as he looked around at where he was. The bed wasn't quite square, and, as Islington looked at, he thought he might have forgotten some parts. What did beds look like, exactly? Was there a section missing between the floor and the top? Maybe. But Richard's eyes were wide and dark and he was licking his lips and Islington was not going to think about it anymore.

Richard backed up on the bed, lying down, his body splayed out on the sheets, long and lean, all that pale skin exposed everywhere, his dick flushed and hard against his stomach. He stretched, looking up at Islington, as if he was just waiting to be taken, offering himself up, begging for it. Islington could barely breathe.

He unfolded his wings, because he rather thought Richard liked them, and was pleased to see the human's eyes go wider when he did. Floating over, his wings fluttering, Islington hovered, staring down at his prize. Richard reached an arm out to him, in the air, and Islington stared at the hand, the long pale fingers. He reached back, grabbing Richard's hand and lowered himself until he was straddling him, knees on either side of Richard's hips, but not quite touching, holding himself inches away in the air while he inspected Richard's hand.

One finger was slightly crooked, bent at a different direction than the rest. There was a line beneath the knuckle, a faint white trace that extended all the way around, paler and almost raised under Islington's fingers.

"You did that, you know," said Richard under him, his voice low and quiet, propping his head on his other arm.

"I did?"

"Well, Vandemar did it, actually, but because you told him to." Richard was looking at him steadily, his eyes clear and so blue, no trace of fear or reproach in his voice. "Last year. Last time I saw you."

Islington looked at the finger in his hand, the line where the bone had broken, where the skin had been punctured, where it had healed crooked and different. Because of him. His mark on Richard, forever.

"A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh," he said, the words drifting into his head from somewhere, something he had heard, something that had trickled down to him in his Citadel.

Richard was watching him, smiling, a bit sadly. "Your word," he said.

Islington let the hand go and reached his hands to Richard's chest, finally letting his wings still and lowering himself onto the bed, pinning Richard under him, their cocks sliding against each other, landing just where he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh" is a Leonard Cohen line, of course, because my username really ought to be alltheleonardcohenlyrics.


	5. Chapter 5

Richard let out a gasp as Islington straddled him, their now naked bodies only inches away from each other. The bed underneath him was soft, he felt himself sinking into it, and the angel settling around him. Islington’s knees were on either side of Richard, pinning him in place. Islington had positioned himself such that their erect dicks were touching, in the same space, tantalizingly close.

Before, when they had only been kissing, Richard had felt the heat rolling off of the angel’s flesh, his body a furnace. But now that there were no clothes creating a barrier between them, now that it was just their bodies, the hot air was building.

It was almost tangible, the hotness, felt like it was taking up space. And Richard found himself wondering if it came from every angle, every crevice, of Islington’s body. He wanted to know just how hot it got and if he could burn himself on it, or if it would not affect his skin at all. Maybe he would get a sunburn, basking in the glow of Islington’s body.

He could see that Islington was watching him, thinking. And Richard did not want the other man to think at all. If he thought then this might stop, or worse, Islington might return to his plan to kill him.

Lifting his hands, Richard decided to bring Islington’s mind back to the space they were in. He grabbed both their penises together. The sensitive skin, rubbing against one another, sent a ribbon of pleasure through Richard’s body. The heat he had been feeling from Islington before was also emanating from his dick. The leftover moisture from Richard’s mouth still remained, along with the pre-come which both men had been leaking, made the touching slick and smooth.

Islington let out a cry of pleasure, a harsh and inhuman sound. And for just a second Richard was pulled back, reminded of who he was with.

Above him, Islington’s eyes were closed in ecstasy.  His chest was taut and glistening with sweat, hard and muscular. It looked like stone, chiseled out of solid marble, a sculpture in a museum. And above those perfect pectorals were the wings. Wings which were open fully, the tips spread apart, so that each feather was visible, fanned out and in place. The contrast of the black and white feathers made the skin of the angel seem even more unreal.

The wings made Islington look even larger, not that he needed any help. At a quick glance, Islington may have appeared human, but this close the illusion fell apart. He towered, everything about him was bigger. In Richard’s hands, he was reminded of that, holding part of Islington’s body.

Finally Richard could take no more, he could feel himself getting close to completion. Islington too seemed like he might be close. But Richard did not want it to end this way.

He let go of their dicks, no longer holding them and rubbing them together.

Islington’s eyes snapped open, but Richard did not give him a chance to say anything. Instead he leaned forward from the bed, placing one searing kiss on Islington’s lips. Then he flopped back down, this time on his stomach, exposing his entire bare back to Islington.

Wriggling into place, he raised his hips, getting comfortable and settled, grinding his ass against the dick which had just been in his hand in the process. The grunt of satisfaction above him made it clear Islington understood what he wanted.

+++ 

Islington had never been one not to take what he wanted. And when it was being offered up to him, like Richard was doing now...Well, there was taking, and there was having, and everything he had thought about drawing this out and exploring Richard's body and taking time to learn what he liked went completely out of his head. This. Now. Yes.

He leaned forward, fluttering his wings to keep him in place, and raked sharp nails down Richard's back, watching the lines of red skin that appeared under his fingers, hearing Richard gasp and suck in air through his teeth. Islington felt like his skin was electrified, all over, the blood pounding in his ears, every muscle on high alert.

His hands were on Richard's ass now, cupping and squeezing as the human groaned under him, writhing into the bed. Islington wanted to leave marks, handprints and finger-sized bruises to mark what was his. He crushed into Richard's flesh, curling his fingers, pressing hard.

"Owww," said Richard, but it wasn't an exclamation so much as a moan, coming from deep in his chest, ending in a high-pitched sigh. Islington grinned, and squeezed harder. Richard choked out another gasp.

This was fun. Why hadn't he done this before?

Islington took his hands off Richard, briefly, and magicked up some lube out of the air, coating his fingers in it, sticky and dripping. Without asking - they were so far past asking - he stuck one finger, slowly but firmly, into the hole in front of him. Richard gasped, wriggling below him. Islington stopped, slowed down just a tad, but Richard was pushing back, harder. "More," he said. "God, please."

Islington laughed, sparks shooting out of his teeth again. This was what he'd wanted, all this time, what he'd come back to earth for, even if he didn't know it then. Richard Mayhew, writhing under him, totally powerless, begging and gasping as Islington inserted another finger, slowly but deliberately  He'd thought Richard would be begging for his life, but this was so much better. He wanted to do this forever, make Richard cry and sob and gasp and come, watch that white skin jump and shiver under his touch, bruise new marks into his skin on top of old ones.

Islington withdrew his fingers, watching Richard's shoulder blades move under his skin as his back muscles tensed and then loosened. "Islington," Richard said, and Islington's hand was on his own cock before he even knew what happened, biting his lip and stroking himself, Richard's voice pooling and heating in his stomach. "Come on, please."

Islington stretched his wings, a whooshing sound in the air as they unfolded to their fullest extent, fluttering lightly as he rose up off the bed, positioning himself at just the right, perfect angle and then-

"Ahhhhh," Islington groaned, while under him Richard's hands were scrabbling at the sheets and he was breathing raggedly, facedown, hair clinging to the sweat on the back of his neck. Richard felt amazing, tight and hot around him, and they'd been doing this for so long, teasing and slowing down and speeding up and Islington knew this wasn't going to last long, but he was going to make the most of it. He started moving, thrusting hard and steady, every motion getting him closer, stars flickering in the corners of his vision.

Richard yelped, rutting further into the bed with every thrust that Islington gave him, and starting to bring his own hand down and around, looking to grab his own cock. Islington reached down and grabbed Richard's wrist - the other one this time, a new line of purple forming under his fingers against the white skin - shoving it away. Richard was his, only he got to touch him, take him apart and wring whatever sensationshe wanted out of him. He was in control, and if Richard wanted to come, he was going to have to let Islington do it.

He reached around, his wings lowering him slightly, snaking an arm under Richard and grabbing his dick, tight and solid. Richard groaned at the contact, gasping out what might have been words but might just have been noises as Islington stroked him. Islington's wrist was trapped under Richard's hip, the hard bone digging into the softness of his arm, bone jarring against bone as Islington's wrist moved in fast short jerks. Richard was stretched out under him now, his fingers curled into the sheets, the muscles of his back hard against Islington's chest, jumping and buckling and finally tensing all at once as Richard screamed, a long guttural howl partially muffled by sheets as he spurted into Islington's hand, hot against the angel's skin. 

Islington left his hand there - he couldn't get it out, anyway, Richard had collapsed on top of him - and moved, hard, a few more quick thrusts and he was falling over the edge, rushing through the vastness of space, galaxies twirling and melding behind his eyes, the sound of the heavenly choir in his ears. His wings opened, all the way, an involuntary reaction, feathers streaming across the room behind him. Pleasure spiked through his entire body, white hot and deafening, and he fell into it. Fell endlessly, a long twisting slide, falling and falling through space and time and heaven and hell, landing, when he opened his eyes, on a makeshift crooked bed in London, fluttering inches above Richard Mayhew, who had twisted to look at him over his shoulder with sleepy, satisfied eyes.

+++

For just a second, Islington hovered above Richard. The small breeze created by the slow and steady flapping of his expanded wings felt amazing. Chilled air brushed Richard’s skin, cooling his sweat covered fevered flesh. Islington pulled out, their bodies once again separate.

Then Islington seemed to practically fall onto the bed next to Richard. He look as tired as Richard felt, sated and sluggish and content. It was hard for Richard to form a coherent thought, still dazed and slightly distracted from what had happened to his body. Things he had never felt before, pleasures he had never even imagined, made real by the Angel who now lay on the bed beside him. 

Richard turned his head and took the time to take in Islington, in all his glory. His rippling chest glistened with sweat and moisture, was moving in the slow and easy breaths of one who was close to drifting off to sleep. The wings, which so fascinated Richard, were no longer expanded, now half folded around Islington’s body, the feathers shining and slick. And Islington’s sharp blue eyes, sapphire that pierced with every glint and sparkle, were half closed, hooded and heavy looking.

It was the most unguarded Richard had ever seen the great creature. Which made it the most vulnerable, the most exposed Islington had ever been around Richard. The most human.

There was a flicker of an idea in the back of Richard’s head. This was his chance, possibly the best he would ever get. Or the best anyone would ever get. Islington was a threat to his life, he had admitted to wanting to kill him. That had been part of what drew Richard to him. But Richard was still a practical man. He was still a Hunter. And he would be a fool to give up this opportunity.

As subtly as he could, so as to not disturb Islington next to him, Richard began to inch his body closer and closer to the edge of the bed. His sword was on the ground, close by if he remembered correctly, and he needed to get to it before Islington awoke from his post-coital haze.

“Richard Mayhew,” came the deep voice, and even now it sent shivers down his spine. It made him think of all the other things those lips and tongue could do, other than just speak his name. “What are you doing?”

Richard tried not to gulp. It had not worked, his ill-conceived plan to go unnoticed. He needed to cover, so he smirked, “I am backing up a little, so I can enjoy the whole view.”

Islington’s eyes fluttered closed the rest of the way and he stretched out a little on the bed. His wings ruffling ever so slightly, as if he were preening. A small humming noise came out of the back of his throat, as if he were agreeing that it was a good idea, “Hmm.”

That was the opening Richard needed. He reached his arm over the side of the makeshift piece of furniture and stuck out his fingers, looking for the familiar weapon. His hand reached, searching for the cold and hard hilt, which fit so perfectly into his palm. For a second he found nothing and he began to panic. What if he was wrong and the sword was not there?

He groped around the floor with a bit more fervor, still trying not to move the rest of his body and alert the angel that anything was amiss. Just when he was about to give up, to try and think of a new plan, his hand reached under the bed just a little more, as far as he could go, and hit the metal sword. 

His fingers wrapped around the hilt and he could feel the satisfying weight of it in his hand. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was about to do. Then with no final thought, not giving himself a chance to change his mind or consider what it was he was about to do, Richard acted. He pulled the sword out from under the bed in one fluid motion, raising it above his head. Then he brought it down, the sword acting as an extension of arm, and buried it into the heart of the reclining angel.

The weapon slid into Islington’s flesh was a sickening swiftness, as if it were cutting through butter. It made an unpleasant sucking noise, squishing and slurping. Blood immediately began to pool around the blade.

As the scarlet circle grew, Islington’s eyes opened in a flash. He looked down at the gaping hole in his chest, not with fear but with surprise. Then up at Richard, as if taking his measure.

And then Islington started to laugh.

Richard’s hand was still on the hilt, he was kneeling above what should have been the dead body of the angel. His sword had struck true, it had found its mark, buried deeply into Islington’s heart. What was going on? Why was Islington not dead? How could he be laughing?

“Ha ha ha,” Islington looked nearly gleeful. 

As a Hunter, this had never happened to him before, he had no idea what was going on. It was amazing the number of things a blow straight to the heart could kill. And he had clearly done some harm, the amount of blood now covering the bed, flowing around his knees and Islington’s back was proof of that. Yet Islington did not seem to mind at all. He found it funny.

+++

Islington watched the blood pooling on the bed, dripping onto the floor, thick and red and wet. He watched it drain out of him and he was amazed at how delighted he felt, free and unencumbered. 

"What the hell," said Richard, his voice somewhere between angry and fearful, "is going on."

"You've done me a favor, Richard Mayhew," said Islington. He reached forward and pulled the sword out, smooth and steady, and laid it on the bed beside him. As he watched the blood on the sword began to disappear, melting into the air in a white haze. It looked like it was evaporating, or disintegrating, leaving behind nothing but the gleaming metal.

"The blood," said Richard. He was looking down at his own bare chest, watching as the spots of red floated off it, glowing white and ethereal, leaving no trace behind. Islington leaned over to him and licked the last of it away, one slow stripe up the center of Richard's stomach, enjoying how the wetness dissipated right off his tongue as he went.

"I don't understand," said Richard. He was staring at Islington as the angel leaned back, settling on the bed, watching Richard watch him.

"I had a decision to make," said Islington. "You have made it for me, and I think you made the right one. I appreciate you taking it out of my hands."

"What decision? What are you talking about?" 

Islington looked at Richard, at the bruises on his wrists and the bite marks on his throat, at his piercing blue eyes and those soft red lips, and decided to tell the truth.

"Much more time has passed for me than for you since we last met," he explained. "It was not easy for me to come back to earth. It took most of my power, and when I got here I was different. Changed. I was...used up, I guess you could say."

"Is that why your wings are black now?" Richard asked.

Islington's lip curled a bit. He hated being interrupted. "I suppose," he said. "I got here and I thought only of finding you, of killing you." He watched the darkness in Richard's eyes as he said that, the flicker of heat that he had gotten used to seeing. "I didn't notice as quickly as I should what was happening. I was becoming less angelic. Less a celestial being. More human."

"Nothing more human than getting stabbed in the chest and laughing," Richard grumbled.

"I said more human, not more stupid. Do you think I took no precautions before coming back here?" Islington was hardly going to tell Richard about the box in Oxford, his life stored and kept safe, for as long as he needed it. That box was staying where it was, and Richard never needed to know about it.

"So what was that then? Decorative bloodletting?" asked Richard.

"If you like," said Islington, remembering the blood on Richard's hands, the taste of it on his lips. "That was my angelic essence, pooling and disappearing, running out of me."

"So you're..."

"Human, now," said Islington. "Like you."

Richard gaped at him. "And this is what you wanted?" 

Islington tilted his head, trying to think of how to explain. "I have been an angel for a long time. Longer than you could ever possibly conceive. I was good at it, and then I wasn't. There is much of this world, though, that I have not seen, trapped as I was. I want to try it."

"Try being human," said Richard.

"Yes," said Islingotn. "Try living in a body, with all that it comes with. Being in the world. I have liked what I've experienced so far." His eyes landed somewhat pointedly on Richard's dick, and Richard, to his credit, grinned.

Islington twisted his head to look at his wings, behind him. They were growing smaller, shrinking, melting into his back. That was the one thing he would miss, his wings. He rather liked his wings. 

"So no more wings," said Richard, watching them. "No more magic. No more heat and super strength and all that bit?"

"Right," said Islington. "In a few minutes, I'll be just like you. Oh, right." Before he lost his magic entirely, he magicked his clothes back on, black jeans and black tshirt, smaller coat now that he no longer had to cover the wings.

"And mortal." Richard's eyes, if he wasn't mistaken, were veering over to the sword on the bed beside him.

"I said, human not stupid," Islington snapped, and grabbed the hilt of the sword, raising an eyebrow at Richard, who laughed.

"Fine, fine," he said. "I'll let you go, this time."

Islington snorted, and watched the last of his wings recede into this back. He felt...heavy. Weighted. Earth-bound, connected to the world and the ground beneath his feet in a way he had never felt before.

"You look different," said Richard. "I'm not sure how."

"I am different," said Islington. "You are the only person who will recognize me, now. No one else will see the angel Islington when they look at this body. Just you." 

Richard's cheeks were tinted slightly pink as he watched Islington get off the bed. "Wait," he said. "What about me?"

"You saw me change, so you will remember-"

"No, I mean, my clothes," said Richard, gesturing down at himself, still naked as he knelt on the sheets, reds and purples on his shoulders, scratches down his stomach.

"Ah, my mistake," said Islington. "Well, can't be helped now. My magic is gone." He looked at his hands, flexed them, thought hard about Richard's clothes, just to see, and nothing happened. He was a human being now, a body, removed from the light. He felt fantastic.

Richard was glaring at him. "So I'm just supposed to stumble home naked?"

Islington walked back to the bed and grabbed Richard, snaking the arm that wasn't holding the sword around his waist and pulling him into a kiss, soft and wet, slow and lingering. Richard made a grumbling mutter into his lips but responded, falling against him, wrapping his arms around Islington's neck and threading his hands through his hair.

Islington seriously considered staying there forever, kissing Richard, sliding lips and tongues against each other and feeling Richard against him, warmer now than he felt before, but finally he pulled away. Richard's eyes were wide and his lips were wet again, flushed and incredibly appealing.

"Go home, Richard Mayhew," said Islington, and turned and walked out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue -- The next day:

“I still do not understand,” Door said, raising an eyebrow, “What happened to your pants.”

Richard shrugged and avoided meeting Door’s eyes. He could not tell her what had really happened to his pants, he barely believed it himself. The thought of what had happened once that piece of clothing was gone, the memory of Islington, was too personal. He did not think he could share it, he did not want to. Richard could feel his cheeks turning red at the very idea.

“Your sword, too,” Portia added, in a thoughtful manner, from next to her sister, “You definitely had a sword when you freed me. You used it to cut my bonds.”

“The sword is long gone by now,” Richard said honestly.

“I am just glad to have you back,” Door said with finality. “Both of you.” She looked between her sister and Richard, talking to both him and Portia.

Richard could only nod and hope that the lie he had told earlier that morning would not be questioned. He had been sitting in the room inside of the Marble Arch for a few hours, after Islington was gone, when a door had appeared out of nowhere. From inside of it, an army had stepped through, led by Door herself.

Portia had found her, just hours after escaping, and told of how Richard was now trapped with the Seven Sister and Islington. Door had gathered all of her allies, everyone who owed her a favor. This had taken some time, but once everyone was gathered, she marched them through a portal and to Richard’s aid. Only to find him sitting alone in the room, wrapped in nothing but a bed-sheet, the corpse of the Seven Sisters still lying on the floor. And no sign of Islington at all.

Richard made up a lie, a rather shoddy one, about Islington leaving after killing the Seven Sisters. He had not come up with a good reason for Islington to have taken his pants.

He also had not said anything about the bruises on his shoulders, shaped like fingers, or on his wrist, coiling around him like a snake. Richard could see Door eyeing them, concerned about what he had been through. But Richard did not say anything, it was personal, something just for him, a reminder of how he had felt with his life in Islington’s hands. 

With nothing to fight, Door’s army had gone their own way. Door had brought Richard back to her stronghold and given him something to wear. Which was where he was now, sitting with Door and Portia, as they thanked him and asked him questions about what had happened.

It was not going very well.

“If Islington got away, if he is free in London Below,” Portia asked, “We should expect him to come back, shouldn’t we?”

Door agreed, “Yes, he might seek revenge for my sending him away. Or for this most recent encounter with Richard. We should prepare for Islington to return.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about seeing Islington again,” Richard said without much thought.

Giving him a curious look, Door asked, “Why not?”

Richard’s mind flashed to a picture of Islington as he had left the Marble Arch. His inky black hair, dark and thick, shining under the lights of the room. Islington’s deep blue eyes still wide and glimmering with mischief under long dark lashes. And his newly magiced dark leather coat billowing out behind him as he walked away.

He thought about what Islington had said about being mortal now, about no one being able to recognize him. Even if Islington walked right up to Door, Richard doubted she would know who it was. It was a secret that only he shared with the former-angel now.

A small smirk graced Richard’s face, “It’s just a feeling I have.”


End file.
